Brody dragged his ass to the locker room. His teammates razzed the hell out of him. It took Brody a hot shower and a long sulk before he left his errors and mistakes on the field and exhaled the game.
It was time to move on. The Rogues now faced the Marlins.
“No one shaves,” Psycho shouted over the bang of lockers and loud music. Several players had their CDs cranked high, and Train, Coldplay, Daughtry, and Brad Paisley vied to be heard.
Law looked at his teammates. Testosterone wrestled for space in the locker room. A few of the players already looked scruffy, and after another few days, they’d have major stubble. If their winning streak continued, those voted onto the All-Star team would have beards.
After a day of travel, the team landed in Miami for a four-game run. The media predicted hot batters and speed runners for the Rogues and high-powered pitching from the Marlins. Numerous newspapers castrated Brody Jones for his infield errors. The kid took the field with something to prove.
Mistakes again rode Brody like a monkey on his back. That monkey was Mary Blanchard, Law later learned, as Brody spit Skoal into a paper cup. Leave it to a woman to screw a man’s game.
“Play is now,” Law said harshly. “Clear your head, Jones. Get it together.”
“Fuck Plain.”
Top of the second, the Rogues went down one, two, three. Brody snagged his glove and jogged to his position. No ball came near him, so he ended the inning clean.
Top of the third, the Marlin’s starting pitcher, tagged the Colossus of Rhodes by the sportscasters, knocked cocky right out of the Rogues. The pitcher’s fastball clocked one hundred. The players never touched a base.
The score remained 1–1, a tug-of-war. Bottom of the fifth, and Brody dove for an easy catch but came up empty. The coach pulled him from the game. The shortstop stormed down the tunnel to the locker room.
“Son of a bitch,” Psycho snapped when the team returned to the dugout for their next at bat. “We need this win and I’ve got incentive.”
“Money?” Kason asked.
“The title to your new Lexus?” asked Rhaden.
“The deed to Psycho Choppers?” put in Risk.
“Hell no, get real.” Psycho took to pacing as he laid out the challenge. “The opening of Club Haunt under Law’s ownership is five days away. Law wants us to attend as superheroes, which we are.”
A few players grinned, and Romeo nearly spewed his Gatorade. “Law’s claimed Captain America. Superman’s up for grabs. Half you assholes want to wear the S and only one can. First home run claims the hero.”
“You shittin’ me?” came from left fielder Kason Rhodes, who’d been one of the players in contention for Superman. “I’d planned to arm wrestle Chaser, Rhaden, and Risk for it.”
“Put your muscle behind your bat,” said Law. Psycho’s idea had merit. “Brody’s the Incredible Hulk—”
“Hell, he still has lime-green streaks behind his ears from last time,” said Risk.
Brody’s pent-up anger would soon bust wide open and rip his uniform to shreds, he was that out of control.
“Brek, Psycho, and Romeo all want Batman. A triple, and the batter gets the Batcave, the Batmobile, and the Batplane,” Law continued. “Whoever strikes out becomes a sidekick to a superhero. There’s Robin, Jimmy Olsen, Speedy, Toro, Snapper Carr.”
Chaser’s eyes crossed. “Who the hell are they?”
Law ran down the list. He knew his sidekicks. “Robin’s with Batman, Jimmy Olsen’s the cub reporter that chronicled his adventures with Superman, Speedy fights alongside the Green Arrow, and Toro’s with the Human Torch. Toro gained his powers as a sideshow fire-eater. Snapper Carr was mascot to the entire Justice League of America.”
“You’d make a great cub reporter,” Psycho taunted Chaser. “It’s Jimmy Olsen for you.”
“I see him more as Speedy,” Risk said tongue in cheek.
Chaser’s jaw set. “I’m no sidekick.”
“Then pick up your big-boy bat and knock one out of the park,” Psycho retorted, egging him on.
The men grumbled, but the glint in their eyes said game on. Motivation in any form pulled the team together and the players’ competitive drive soon dominated Miami. No man wanted to show up at Haunt as a sissy sidekick.
The final score laid victory at the Rogues’ feet. They’d taken game one, which amped adrenaline and spirits.
Law awarded costumes as the guys stripped off their sweaty and dirt-stained uniforms. “Risk, you’re Superman.” The center fielder had slammed a ball to the upper deck in right field for a home run.
“Romeo, you’ve got Batman,” Law continued. The third baseman had landed a solid triple.
Law scanned the room. “Kason, you and Psycho doubled. Pick your superheroes.”
Psycho stood buck naked, towel in hand. “Flesh Gordon,” he chose.
“It’s Flash Gordon,” Law corrected.
“I’m doing the porno hero.” Psycho the nudist would stand out in the crowd.
Kason untied his athletic shoes. “I’m going as Punisher.”
“He’s an antihero,” said Law.
“Punisher doesn’t always act as nice as people expect,” Kason said. “He goes to the darker side of comics.”
Punisher fit Kason’s personality. No team member knew the left fielder well. He was married, lived rural, and kept to himself.
Psycho told anyone who’d listen that Kason was raised by wolves. The two players tolerated each other now, but in the early days when Kason had been traded from Louisville to Richmond, he and Psycho had been team rivals. They’d hated each other’s guts.
Kason had finally found his niche with the Rogues. No player was more driven or dependable. Kason could lay down a home run in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and at full count.
Law cut Brek Stryker some slack with his costume. He’d pitched seven innings with power and precision. His perfectly placed sacrifice bunt advanced two base runners, gaining him superhero status. Brek went with Wolverine.
Catcher Chase Tallan and first baseman Rhaden Dunn gritted their teeth and awaited their fate. A walk had gotten Chaser on first, but he’d struck out his last at bat.
Dunn’s ground ball had rolled right to the pitcher. He’d been thrown out at first. Later, he’d popped a fly ball to the shortstop to end an inning.